


candid

by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Teambuilding, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: So off Francis drove to the private resort that Franklin had rented, his trunk filled with Coca-Cola Zeros for the potluck, a sack of dog food for Neptune, and three sets of “working clothes”, whatever that meant. When he saw James lingering in the driveway wearing skinny jeans and a thin, white t-shirt that had seen better days, Francis had even started looking forward to it.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 20
Kudos: 83
Collections: janky franky's frosty fun time 2k19





	candid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplyirenic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyirenic/gifts).



> This is... I don't know what this is. But I've come to realize that I have very strong feelings about employee engagement activities. Written for the Frosty Fun Time prompt: icebreaker.
> 
> This is for [ireny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyirenic/profile) because I know it will give them a) hives, and b) second-hand embarrassment.

_“My name is, well, you all know me, my name is Francis Crozier. I don't really use emojis so I don’t have a favorite one. No? I have to get another one? Okay.”_

Francis tried not to scowl as Irving sheepishly handed him the pack of flash cards. This is the stupidest idea that Dean Franklin has ever had, and he's had many over the years. The physics department has remained unchanged for the past four semesters, but for some reason Franklin thought that a teambuilding session was in order.

When Francis got the stupid email with its equally stupid subject line (You Are Invited To A Fun-Filled Weekend!), Francis thought that he would be able to beg off, but James had cornered him at the end of the day with a message from the dean himself. “Skipper says it’s a required activity, Francis,”—he said in that posh drawl that made Francis want to punch him—“you’ll come, won’t you?” And then James did _that thing._ Francis didn't quite know how to explain it, but it seemed like when James did _the thing,_ his eyes grew three times larger and shinier and the moue of his mouth would curve in a way that made Francis want to kiss him senseless. 

He hasn’t of course, because he’s not an idiot.

So off he drove to the private resort that Franklin had rented (“It was Director Barrow’s recommendation, or I would have chosen something more modest, I assure you.”), his trunk filled with Coca-Cola Zeros for the potluck, a sack of dog food for Neptune, and three sets of “working clothes”, whatever that meant. When he saw James lingering in the driveway wearing skinny jeans and a thin, white t-shirt that had seen better days, Francis had even started looking forward to it.

_“Hello, everyone! Yes, Sir John, it’s a good evening isn't it? And what a turnout! I'm so glad you could all make it. Let’s see now… oh… well, ahahaha, it says here ‘what is my phone background?’ Well, it’s erm… a photo of this painting at the Ritz I saw! It was a very nice Monet, not sure if it was a replica or the real thing, but something about the colours in his Haystack series brings to mind a sense of loneliness…”_

What followed instead was two days of cliche group activities and some truly questionable parlour games. Francis could get the physical bit of it: half of them still fantasized about getting into a space program, but the schedule written in fine cursive (Little’s) on a single sheet of cartolina was a tad bit much. Francis was paired with Tommy Evans for the three-legged race, and while good-natured and polite, the student assistant was too gangly for his own good. They fell on the first marker, Evans skinning his knee and Francis his ego. When Francis looked up, Jopson and Hartnell were coming in first, followed by James and Goodsir, who was in ecstasies about the black and yellow moth he’d spotted flapping about at the finish line.

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” Evans whimpered beside him, his shoulders holding back a sob. Francis gave him a reassuring smile and patted the top of his curly head, not unlike when he petted Neptune (speaking of, where was that pup?) “That’s all right, son,” Francis said. “Let’s find the med kit, shall we?”

_“Evening, evening. Name’s Thomas Blanky from lab admin. And if I could pick an actor who would play me in a movie, it would be that bloke from ‘The English Patient’. What was his name? Fiennes, was it? What... don’t you see the resemblance?”_

The icing on the cake was a mystery game suggested by Hickey that was simply labeled as “egg race”. The instructions in the email said that interested competitors were to assemble at the poolside at 10am and to bring one hardboiled egg from the pantry. Francis hadn’t signed up for it, but he figured that it was better entertainment than replaying J.C.’s (or Sophia’s) videos in his Stories archive. When they got there, Des Voeux described the mechanics with sadistic glee: each competitor had to roll their egg from one end of the poolside to the other. To do so, an eggplant attached to a string would be hung from their waist, and they had to thrust their hips so the eggplant could swing forward and hit the egg.

“How the hell did he get away with this?” Francis heard Gore whisper to Little. Little’s expression turned from worried to extremely worried. “Word has it that Dean Franklin was soused last night so he's skipping the morning activities.”

“What? But isn’t he–”

By then, Francis had stopped listening. In his periphery, he'd sighted James slowly walking away from the crowd. When he was at a safe distance, James beckoned Neptune over and the pup trotted towards him obediently. Francis thought of getting their attention, but before he could call out, James was shoving an egg into Neptune’s mouth.

“At least take out the egg shells.”

The small shriek that came out of James made Francis grin like a loon. “No backing out, James. That was in the email.”

“Francis!” James hissed.

Back at the poolside, the competition was in full swing. Tozer and Pilkington were discussing strategy as Diggle tied the appendages to their waists. 

“Francis, I’m begging you. Don’t tell anyone.” James’s expression was so panicked that Francis was tempted to prolong his agony. But then he did _that thing,_ and instead of being arousing as hell, there was a quality to it that made Francis’s smile wane. He placed a hand on James’s shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. “It’s all right, James,” he said. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Neptune let out a whoof and nosed at James’s hand. “I think your secret’s safe with Nep, too.”

In the end, no one won the race. Hodgson came close, thrusting and undulating like some kind of octopi. No one quite understood the mechanics of his technique but it somehow got him ahead. As Hodgson neared the finish line, Neptune decided that the various swinging vegetables resembled the fishing rods that he and Fagin used to play with. He leapt at Hodgson’s eggplant and played a quick tug-of-war that Hodgson’s undulating hips couldn’t win, at which point, Hodgson slipped on his egg and fell into the pool.

(At which point, they learned that Hodgson couldn't swim.)

_“Good evening, everyone. My name is John Bridgens from the library. I’m not really one to rank the presents I receive; if you mean well and you're sincere, then whatever you give will be much appreciated. But I do have a favorite one! For our anniversary, my Henry gave me a moleskin full of poems. It was 80 pages of his original stuff: some pages had poems and some had journal entries of our times together. When I got to the last page, I was crying so hard that I could barely read the 'will you marry me' scribbled at the bottom...”_

Francis closed his eyes and slumped at his monobloc chair. Everyone else had left the circle, dragging their feet to their rooms after Dean Franklin called it a day. The old man had resurfaced at the dinner hour and announced that everyone was to gather at the multi-purpose area for a “culminating activity”. What followed was two grueling hours of each person sharing to the group what they learned about themselves the past two days, what they learned about “the team”, and what they can commit to the department (to Franklin) moving forward. It wouldn't have lasted so long had Franklin not taken 45 minutes to wax on ladder metaphors about success.

Francis would have slept then and there had a series of beeps not rung somewhere to his right. He glanced at a chair a few spots over. Someone had left their phone in their haste. With a groan, Francis stood to see if he could find out whom the phone belonged to. In the screen, a popup window said, “New message from Hundas Dundas: Where u?” 

In the split second between the popup closing and the phone turning dark, Francis saw something oddly familiar. The photo was clearly taken from the obstacle grounds yesterday. In the right corner of the screen, half of Evans was sat on a cooler with a fresh gauze on his knee. The other half of Evans was covered by Neptune, who was licking at his face with unrestrained doggie love. And watching over them both, with a warmth and openness that Francis didn’t recognize, in the very center of the photo–

“Francis?”

Francis's heart leapt from his body and hit the ceiling like a sad sack of potatoes.

“Francis, have you seen my–oh, it’s here! Thank god.”

James appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was already dressed for bed in red silk pajamas and soft slippers, his hair delicately secured by a white shower headband with a union jack pattern. Francis didn't trust himself to speak, so instead he offered the phone without comment. James thanked him profusely as he fiddled with his phone, rubbing his thumb over a (totally imaginary) spot of dirt. After a while, he looked up at Francis as if waiting on his cue.

Francis felt like a ship about to keel over, but he braced himself and charged the pack. “So you... like art?”

James didn't seem to follow. “Sorry?”

“Your phone,” Francis gestured to the device James was clutching to his chest, “when we were doing icebreakers, you said something about art on your phone?”

James's cheeks turned a light pink to match his pajamas. He squirmed where he stood, and when Francis looked closely, it looked like his eyes were watering.

“Ah, Francis! James! There you are."

A thousand Irish curses went through Francis's head, and it was by sheer force of will that none of them clawed their way past his teeth. Dean Franklin walked in, cool and amiable as can be. In his hand, he was carrying a stack of papers. “I forgot to give out the evaluation forms. Do you mind doing the rounds? Make a Powerpoint of it. One of those colorful cake graphs will do nicely.”

A single, terribly loud, no good screech came to the fore of Francis’s memory, not unlike the one his mum made when he and J.C. were skylarking about in Sainsbury’s and crashed their trolleys together. Before Francis could reenact his mum, James had stepped forward and grabbed the stack from Franklin. “A pie chart, sir? Of course, sir. I’ll see to it. Good night, sir.”

James and Francis watched Dean Franklin as he retreated to his rooms (plural), all the while exuding an air of benevolence that one hated but also can’t help but respect. When all but his shadow exited the room, Francis turned back to James and found him regarding Francis with a timid smile. “I’ll lend Jopson to you,” Francis said. “He loves clerical work as much as he loves napkin origami. Or maybe we can...”

Francis scratched his tummy. James kept silent. 

“Or maybe we can work on it together? Tomorrow? I can move my consultation hour so we can have a common time. Maybe after your 2pm lecture?” Each question seemed to make the idea more ridiculous. Francis was about to take it all back when James flashed him a grin so bright it could light up an entire football pitch. “I’ll bring coffee,” James said. 

Francis’s heart finally returned from the ceiling and settled warmly in his chest like a happy sack of potatoes. He nodded gravely, like they’d just made a very important agreement.

“Good night, James.”

“Good night, Francis.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part exaggeration and part very real things that have happened during the many teambuilding sessions that I've attended. The eggplant race, for example, is an actual thing that my colleagues submitted to multiple times a year.
> 
> I'm [laissezferre](https://laissezferre.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
